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Haugtussa 'The mountain maid', Op 67

Introduction

Arne Garborg’s verse-novel Haugtussa (‘The mountain maid’; literally ‘A girl of the hill-spirits’) was published in 1895. Comprising no fewer than seventy-one individual verses, it created a deep impression on Grieg, who had first encountered Garborg’s writing a few years earlier. No sooner had Grieg read the book than he wrote to his friend Julius Röntgen about the possibility of setting parts of it: ‘I have been deep in a highly remarkable poem … Haugtussa. It is a quite brilliant book, where the music is really already composed. One just needs to write it down.’ This marriage of poetry and music is one of the miracles of the nineteenth-century song-cycle genre. Many regard Haugtussa as Grieg’s masterpiece, a claim which it is hard to resist. It is certainly one of the greatest song-cycles for the female voice ever written, revealing the composer at the very height of his powers. But Grieg’s initial intention to set parts of it went through several refining processes before he finally settled on the eight verses that make up his Op 67. This work is in many ways the culmination of various strands in Grieg’s earlier song-writing, from the relative innocence of the Op 5 set to, for example, the ‘knowing’ character of the German songs Op 48, especially Lauf der Welt. Although there is great originality in such works as the Piano Concerto, and a breadth of conception in pieces like the G minor String Quartet, Grieg’s sheer range as a song-writer—from the shortest settings, folk-like and immediate, to the depth of distinctive inspiration that runs through every bar of Haugtussa—places him without question among the finest masters of the genre.

Recordings

Grieg’s sheer range as a song-writer places him without question among the finest masters of the genre. This disc includes the cycle Haugtussa: a marriage of poetry and music which is one of the miracles of the nineteenth-century song-cycle genre, re ...» More

Details

No 1: Det syng 'The singing'
Å veit du den Draum og veit du den Song 'Oh, if you know the dream and if you know the song'

Oh, if you know the dream and if you know the song, then you will want to treasure the notes; and even if they lead you astray many times, you can never forget them. Oh, entrancing one! with me you shall live; in the Blue Hill you shall turn your silver spinning wheel.

You should not fear the gentle night, when dreams spread their wings, in gentler light than the day has and music on softer strings. The hills are rocked to sleep, strife floats away, and the day knows no such happy time.

You should not be afraid of that wild love, that offends and weeps and forgets; its embrace is warm and its manner is gentle, and it tames the angry bear. Oh, entrancing one! with me you shall live; in the Blue Hill you shall turn your silver spinning wheel.

She is thin and dark and slender with brown and clean features, and eyes deep and grey and a calm, dreamy manner. It is almost as if a sleepiness lay over her; in movement, speech and everything she has a restrained calm.

Under her brow, lovely but low, shine eyes as if behind a mist; it is as if they, gazing, saw far into another world. Only her heart beats fast and hard and there is a trembling around her pale mouth. She is quiveringly tender and frail, at the same time she is lovely and young.

Just look, how blue it is here! Now we must rest, cows! Oh, such fine berries and it is just teeming with them! No, I have never seen the like! It is really good here on the mountain. Now I shall eat my fill; here I shall stay until evening!

But if the big bear should come!— Here there is room for both of us. I would not dare say a word to such a handsome creature. I would just say: Please! Now you must not be shy! I will leave you in peace; take as much as you have a mind to.

But if it were the red fox, he would get a taste of my stick; I would strike him dead, even if he were brother to the pope. Such a wretched, exasperating scoundrel! He steals both kids and lambs. But however fine he looks, he has neither conscience nor shame.

But if it were the evil wolf, as angry and as insincere as the tax-collector, I would take a birch club and give him a good one on the snout. He tore to pieces the sheep and lambs of my mother’s again and again; yes indeed! if he should just come, he will certainly get what he deserves.

But if it were the handsome boy from over at Skare-Brôte, he would certainly get one on the nose— but in quite another way. Oh, nonsense, what am I thinking of! The day is already wearing on … I must see to the herd; ‘Dokka’ [the bell-cow] is dreaming of salt.

She sits one Sunday longingly on the hillside; sweet thoughts are streaming over her, and her heart, full and heavy, beats in her breast, and the dream awakens, trembling and gentle. Then it is as if there is a mirage over the mountain crest; she blushes hotly; here comes the handsome boy.

She wants to hide herself away in a sudden daze, but pauses entranced and turns her eyes towards him; they take one another’s warm hands and stand there at a loss for words. Then she blurts out these admiring words: ‘Goodness me … you are so tall!’

And as it draws on towards the cool evening time, more and more in longing they draw together, and suddenly his young arm curls around her neck and delirious they tremble, mouth against mouth. Everything floats away and there in the warm evening in ardent happiness, she sleeps in his arms.

Oh, hip and hop and tip and top on this day; oh, nip and nap and trip and trap in such a way. And there is ‘Cuddle-in-the-Sun’, and there is ‘Reflected-in-the-Sun’, and there is ‘Quiver-on-the-Hill’, and there is ‘Sparkle-on-the-Hill’, and there is ‘Merry-Maker’ and ‘Noisy’ one sunny day.

Oh, jerk the neck, and fall to the ground and tip-toe; oh, join in the ring and run into the circle and jump in the hay. And there is ‘Lick-in-the-Sun’, and there is ‘Play-in-the-Sun’, and there is ‘Gleam-on-the-Hill’, and there is ‘Bustle-on-the-Hill’, and there is ‘Twitter’ and ‘Brooklet-Glitter’ and snug in the corner.

Oh, stamp and sing, and a prod in the head, you shall have that! And snip and cut, and a kiss on the snout, you can take that. And there is ‘Roll-in-the-Ring’, and there is ‘Hum-and-Swing’, and there is ‘Light-on-the-Toes’, and there is ‘Bounce-on-the-Toes’, and there is heigh-ho and there is hopla and tra-la-la!

She counts the days and hours and late evenings until Sunday comes; he promised so faithfully that even if it rained pebbles over the mountain they would meet there in the shepherd’s hut. But Sunday comes and goes with rain and wind; she sits alone weeping under the bushes.

Like a bird, wounded under its warm wing when blood trickles, so are her hot tears; she drags herself sick and trembling into bed and tosses and turns all night long in bitter weeping. Her heart is breaking and her cheeks burn. Now she must die; she has lost her boy.

You swirling brook, you curling brook, Here you lie cosily, warm and clear. And wash yourself clean and glide over stones and hum so amiably and murmur a little, and glisten in the sun with gentle waves. Oh, here I will rest, rest.

You singing brook, you trickling brook, here you run so happily down the bright hillside. With a gurgle and a chuckle, with a song and a sigh, with rushing and roaring through your leafy house, with strange chattering and gentle gliding. Oh, here I will dream, dream.

You crooning brook, you murmuring brook, here you find a bed under the soft moss. Here you dream a while and completely forget yourself, and whisper and chant in great peace, with balm for melancholy and terrible longing. Oh, here I will remember, remember.

You wandering brook, you trickling brook, what do you think about on your long journey? Through empty spaces, amongst bushes and flowers? When you slip into the earth and appear again? Have you ever seen anyone as lonely as I? Oh, here I will forget, forget.

You hissing brook, you rippling brook, you play in the grove, you hum at rest. And smile at the sun and laugh in your shelter, and wander so far and learn so much … Oh, don’t sing about what I’m thinking of now. Oh, let me sleep, sleep!